HOW LIGHTLY MOUNTS THE MUSE'S WING.
Reading edition
(AIR—ANONYMOUS.)
How lightly mounts the Muse's wing, Whose theme is in the skies— Like morning larks that sweeter sing The nearer Heaven they rise,
Tho' love his magic lyre may tune, Yet ah, the flowers he round it wreathes, Were plucked beneath pale Passion's moon, Whose madness in their ode breathes.
How purer far the sacred lute, Round which Devotion ties Sweet flowers that turn to heavenly fruit, And palm that never dies.
Tho' War's high-sounding harp may be., Most welcome to the hero's ears, Alas, his chords of victory Are wet, all o'er, with human tears.
How far more sweet their numbers run, Who hymn like Saints above, No victor but the Eternal One, No trophies but of Love!